


The Haunted Mansion Affair

by LuckyLadybug



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Cemetery, Gen, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Humor, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:26:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyLadybug/pseuds/LuckyLadybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon, Illya, and Illya's mysterious and hapless stalker roam through a bizarre and troubling house and its even more bizarre and troubling backyard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Haunted Mansion Affair

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are not mine and the story is! This takes place before my story The Return From the Dead Affair and involves a situation that culminates in that story, but it shouldn’t have to be read first to understand this bit of supernatural chaos. I started the story a couple of months ago, and a PicFic prompt at Section7MFU on Livejournal made the idea blossom.

Illya knew he was being stalked.

He had known it for weeks, really, ever since someone had reprogrammed U.N.C.L.E.’s computers to send him several unflattering messages. Subsequently, he had started to receive photographs of assorted activities he had been engaged in, from fighting an enemy agent to having dinner with Napoleon. It was disturbing and annoying, but he didn’t know what to do about it if he couldn’t catch the culprit in the act. So far, he had not been able to.

It was an overcast evening when he was out driving with Napoleon in Napoleon’s convertible. They had just taken care of an important dinner with a head of state and were returning to U.N.C.L.E. HQ. Or that was the plan, anyway. The sound of a horrific shriek from an old house on a deserted corner gave them both pause.

“Napoleon, did you hear that?” Illya exclaimed.

Napoleon was already pulling over to the curb. “I not only heard it, partner mine, but I do believe it scared me out of ten years’ growth. It’s probably just some kids fooling around in there and hoping to frighten anyone who drives by, but there’s always the chance that perhaps someone is actually in trouble in there.”

“Such as a beautiful damsel for you to rescue from her distress,” Illya remarked. Still, with a blood-curdling sound such as that, he could scarcely believe that someone wasn’t in genuine trouble. He drew his gun as he moved to follow Napoleon out of the car and up the walk.

Napoleon deftly stepped over the weeds growing out of cracks in the sidewalk and made his way up the light wooden steps to the porch. Fully expecting the door to be unlocked, he wasn’t surprised when he easily pushed it open to reveal a sparsely furnished entryway beyond. “Well,” he commented, “are you game to help rescue our unknown damsel?”

“It’s better than standing out here waiting for you,” Illya returned. He leaped up the steps to the porch, his movements nearly silent. When Napoleon entered the house, Illya was right beside him.

Neither of them was aware of a car that pulled up farther down the block, in sight of the convertible. Both occupants wore coats, fedoras, and sunglasses. The passenger pushed his hat back on his head as he exited the car.

“I still say this is utter foolishness,” complained the driver. “What’s the point of following Kuryakin around just to take photographs? You can’t get any pictures in that rattrap anyway.”

“I’ll make my move on Kuryakin when I’m ready,” the passenger replied, keeping his hand on the open car door. “Right now I want to see what he’s up to. Why are they even going into that rattrap?” He frowned at the crumbling exterior of the Victorian mansion.

“You know, I ruddy well don’t care,” the driver scowled. “And you shouldn’t either.”

“They’ll probably only be in there a moment.” The passenger shut the door. “Just wait for me.”

“You’d better not be long or I’ll drive off without you!” the driver yelled back. They both knew he wouldn’t.

The passenger—Illya’s stalker—strolled up to the side of the house and peered through the nearest window. Seeing Illya and Napoleon just passing by the room right then, he eased up the sash and slipped inside, stealthy as a cat.

“I certainly don’t see any sign of a woman in here,” Illya frowned. “Look at the floor, Napoleon! It’s covered in a thick layer of dust. No one has been in here for months.”

“And yet we know we heard something,” Napoleon insisted. “Maybe it was at the back of the house or on the upper floor.”

Illya passed through the living room and into the ground floor hallway. “From here I can see the back door standing open. Whoever was in here must have run out that way.”

Napoleon brushed past Illya and wandered over to the door. “Ah, but there are no footprints over here, either,” he declared. “No one came this way, Illya.”

Illya’s frown deepened. As he started up the corridor, he peered into every room, searching for the mysterious person who had screamed. But it was all to no avail; the rooms stood dark and cold with their rusting, moth-eaten furniture and coverings. There was no sign that any human had inhabited any of the rooms within the last twenty years—or longer.

“I suppose now you’re going to tell me that there’s a legend of this house being haunted,” he said, turning back to face Napoleon.

“I really wouldn’t know,” Napoleon replied. “But it certainly looks like the type of house that could generate such rumors, doesn’t it?”

Illya did not look impressed. “People’s imaginations could turn any uninviting location into a hotbed of spirit activity. And what we heard was most certainly not a spirit!”

“I’m not sure how you could tell,” Napoleon answered, “unless your reasoning is simply that there are no such things as ghosts.”

Illya sighed in exasperation. “I really wouldn’t know,” he said, deliberately echoing Napoleon’s words.

“I must say that in any case, this house boasts another intriguing argument in favor of spirit activity.” Napoleon nodded towards the open back door. “Take a look out there.”

Shooting him a suspicious look, Illya walked over and stood in the doorway. He rocked back in surprise at the sight of a fountain in the middle of a courtyard and tombstones spread around the edges and along a garden path. “This can’t be real,” he objected in shock. “Health regulations would never allow something like this.”

“You wouldn’t think so, but how do you explain that it’s right there?” Napoleon rested his hand on the wall.

“Perhaps it’s aesthetic only,” Illya said.

“Fake tombstones?” Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

Illya shrugged. “I have heard that there are some very morbid people in the world. Some of them might delight in an arrangement like this.”

“I suppose,” Napoleon slowly consented. “But are you game to go out there and have a closer look?”

“Of course.” Illya stepped into the backyard cemetery, followed closely by Napoleon.

They left the door open, not seeing another way to easily exit the bizarre, gated yard and wanting ready access back to the house. Neither of them noticed the mysterious stalker slip down the corridor and approach the open doorway, peering out at the cemetery with as much surprise and disbelief as the two U.N.C.L.E. agents had felt.

“I don’t know,” Napoleon mused. “These look like real tombstones to me. Each one lists a name, birth and death dates, and some sort of depressing epitaph. They apparently date back to the time when people were obsessed with their own mortality.”

“The _memento mori_ type,” Illya said.

“Exactly.” Napoleon stepped around a hedge at the corner and found himself looking at a fountain of a beautiful Grecian woman standing in a white bowl. She was pouring water out of a bowl of her own, which was tipped just enough for the water to spill into the larger bowl and create a fountain effect.

Illya paused to study it as well. “Forgive me, but I do not see how this fits into the _memento mori_ concept.”

“I’m sure there’s people who would be more than happy to explain it to you,” Napoleon said. “Perhaps it’s an idea borrowed from the garden cemeteries of New York, Boston, and other large cities.”

“Yes, but those only came about in the 19th century,” Illya said. “These graves are far older than that.”

“It must be a more modern renovation,” Napoleon said. “I know people were living here more recently than 1712.”

Illya wandered ahead a bit. “I still don’t know that I believe this is a real cemetery and not an elaborate yard decoration.” He paused to study a statue of a man staring off into the distance. The statue was supposedly another marker. Underneath it were some of the typical engravings of a headstone—name and lifetime dates, but this time not a uniquely worded epitaph.

“It _is_ strange that there’s no record of such a burial ground at this address,” Napoleon conceded. “The most likely possibility is that it’s a family cemetery. People _did_ used to bury their loved ones on their own property.”

“Regardless, there’s little point in our staying here,” Illya said. “Whoever screamed is not anywhere in this cemetery, real or fake.”

“Unless they were attacked and are lying here somewhere,” Napoleon said. He walked around another hedge.

“Attacked by what?” Illya scoffed. “A ghost?”

“Hmm. I suppose that _does_ sound illogical,” Napoleon mused. “After all, if it attacked one person, it’s strange it’s not attacking us as well.”

“It’s illogical for more reasons than that,” Illya retorted. “I have heard the stories about poltergeists, but I honestly don’t believe them. Just believing that the spirit carries on after death is one thing. Believing that there is a type of spirit that can reach out onto the mortal plane and throw objects and people despite not being corporeal is quite another.”

“You may have a point,” Napoleon nodded. “But there are so many things we don’t understand. Poltergeists could be another.”

“If they truly exist, I am not anxious to discover it.” Illya peered over the winding hedge in another location. “But as far as I am concerned, we are alone here. Unless . . .” He paused.

“What is it?” Napoleon asked.

“We both know I am being stalked,” Illya said. “Perhaps my stalker is the one who screamed and he arranged this entire set-up to attract us, or at least me, to this house.”

“Now that’s an interesting idea,” Napoleon said. “Maybe we should follow up on it. Let’s keep looking. Mr. Waverly has been increasingly insistent that we find out the identity of your stalker posthaste.”

“And I am increasingly anxious to please him,” Illya said.

With that idea in mind, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents continued their exploration of the cemetery.

Neither of them noticed the figure that had long ago slipped out of the house and started silently stealing through the graves. “You won’t find out about me yet, Kuryakin,” he muttered. “I’m not ready for you to meet me again. Not here.”

He placed his hands on the base of the male statue Illya had been looking at several moments earlier. But at the feeling of something coming off on his hands, he looked up with a start. The statue, which had been perfectly normal those moments earlier, was now crumbling on one side. He jerked his hands back in disbelief. “What . . .” He brushed his hands together, desperate to remove the particles of stone and dust. “That’s not possible!”

The statue seemed to focus with its one remaining good eye, staring down at him. Gasping in shock and horror, he backed up until he tripped over a headstone at the edge of the walkway and sat down hard behind it.

“It’s just the light,” he told himself, his heart racing wildly. “It has to just be the light. And it must have been more fragile than it looked. Just the touch of a warm human hand started its destruction.”

The eye kept staring, refusing to break contact. It was completely focused; most certainly it was not the light.

Unable to stand it any longer, Illya’s stalker backed up on the grass and then leaped to his feet, running as far away from the statue as he could get while remaining in the courtyard.

He wasn’t the only one experiencing something weird. Illya and Napoleon, meanwhile, were observing oddities about the other statues they passed.

“These monuments certainly are corroding swiftly,” Illya noted, eyeing a bust of a woman that was whitening from age on one side.

“And rather illogically,” Napoleon added. “Look at this one.” He nodded at another bust, one that looked like it was being dissolved by acid.

“The work of vandals, no doubt,” Illya frowned. “There are plenty of people who have no respect for the dead or their resting places.”

“Not that I don’t agree with you, Illya, but this statue was fine several minutes ago.” Napoleon looked deeply troubled.

“What? That’s impossible!” Illya objected, hurrying over for a better look. “That must have been a different statue.”

“No, it was this one,” Napoleon insisted. “I remember because I was thinking how beautiful and serene she looked.”

“Always with a thought for a woman,” Illya grunted. “Perhaps she knows of your reputation and decided to make her statue a lot less attractive to you.”

“Har har.” Napoleon frowned, not in the mood for jokes. “Illya, I’m serious about the sudden damage to the statue. And I don’t want to sound even more macabre, but wasn’t that tombstone closer to the edge of the house before?”

Illya spun around to look in the direction Napoleon was pointing. “Oh, Napoleon, really!” he huffed. “Are you trying to say that tombstone got up and walked over closer to us?”

Napoleon sighed. “I know how that sounds, Illya, but I’m sure it wasn’t standing right on the path before.” He took several steps forward. “And look, you can see an indentation in the dirt where a tombstone was!”

“Then the vandals stole it and you were mistaken that one was there,” Illya retorted. “Or my stalker is playing tricks on us.”

“Well, he certainly is crafty, to be able to come this close to us without us hearing or seeing him at all.”

“It makes more sense than thinking the tombstone brought itself over for a little chat.”

“I never said that,” Napoleon shot back. “I believe you were the one who brought up the idea.” He studied the tombstone. “Although it looks like a trail of dirt leading back to that indentation,” he said, still honestly troubled.

“If the tombstone had really pushed itself over, or if someone else pushed it over, we would have heard the scraping of the stone against the walkway,” Illya objected.

“That’s true,” Napoleon admitted. “But how do you explain those marks?”

Illya paused. “To be honest, I can’t.”

Neither could his stalker, who was creeping along the edge of the pathway and hoping to find his way back to where they were. As he took another step forward, something suddenly got in his way and he gave a yelp, tripping forward this time and falling flat on his face.

For a moment he lay there, stunned. Then, slowly, he rose up to try to see what had tripped him.

There was nothing underneath him or anywhere else on the walkway. But he knew he saw the edge of a tombstone move, as though shifting back into place.

That brought him sharply to his feet. Thoroughly horrified by now, he turned and ran for the house. “Forget stalking Kuryakin in here!” he cried. He hated the thought of going back through the house, but that was the quickest way out of the cemetery. Anyway, by this point he wouldn’t trust the gate. It might be electrically charged.

He stopped running and slowed to a halt near the door. Frowning, he adjusted his sunglasses and turned back to the mysterious tombstone. What was the matter with him? He was a trained spy, just like the U.N.C.L.E. agents. Everything he had seen must surely have some rational explanation. He was letting his imagination run away with him, but that was very likely what whoever had set this up wanted.

Yes, that was it. It _had_ to be a set-up, an elaborate way to scare anyone off the grounds. There had to be a living person behind it.

Determined now, and disgusted with himself for his fear, he stormed off again.

Illya, meanwhile, had heard the small yelp and now was weaving his way through the hedges and headstones to find where it had come from. But no one was in sight. Frowning, he turned to look at Napoleon. “You heard that, I hope.”

“Yes, I heard it.” Napoleon studied the pathway at the back of the house, near where they had entered this bizarre maze. “But I don’t see who made it.”

“It must have been my stalker,” Illya insisted. “He’s trying to scare us again.”

“Or,” Napoleon said slowly, “if he _isn’t_ responsible for this, perhaps he’s scared himself.”

“That would be quite fitting,” Illya said with some relish. “But if this is such a disturbing place, and not by his hand, are we back to thinking poltergeists are at work?”

“Again, I never said that.” Napoleon brushed past him and headed for the house. “I suppose it’s also possible that everything we’ve seen has been electronically controlled somehow, including the moving tombstones.”

“And the destruction to the statues?” Illya frowned. “Oh.” He stopped, staring at the woman’s bust Napoleon had noticed before.

“What is it?” Napoleon turned to look and then froze.

The bust now looked good as new.

“Alright,” Illya said slowly, “unless someone is switching statues on us, I will have to admit that something strange is going on.”

“And I don’t think we’re likely to find any answers out here,” Napoleon said. “Let’s go back in the house. Your stalker may be in there. And whoever set up this elaborate scheme, if not him.”

“Very well.” Gripping his gun, Illya headed in determination for the back door.

On guard for any number of strange and unsettling things, Napoleon followed.

****

The house was just as unwelcoming as it had been before. The first thing Illya did was to look down at the footprints in the dust, seeking for a third set to belong to his stalker. Finding nothing, he straightened with a frown. “If my stalker followed us here, it would seem that he did not come this way,” he said.

“Unless he has enough presence of mind to literally walk in our footprints so as not to leave his own?” Napoleon suggested.

“I suppose that’s possible,” Illya conceded.

He shined his flashlight up the hall. “The main question is, if someone is controlling everything in the cemetery, where is their base of operation?”

“Probably behind a mysterious secret panel,” Napoleon said. “And without any other footprints, there isn’t really any indication of where to go to look. We’ll have to go over the entire house.” He paused. “Or simply concede to the possibility of ghostly activity.”

“I would rather not, thank you.” Illya advanced down the hall, again looking into the rooms for any sign of activity. “Since we have already looked down here, I would suggest moving to the basement and the upstairs.”

“That’s a good idea,” Napoleon nodded. “Which first?”

“Offhand, one might think the secret room would be in the basement,” Illya said, “but it’s just possible that they would put it upstairs instead, perhaps overlooking the cemetery.”

“Ah, and then they could have the satisfaction of watching us stumble around without relying on hidden cameras to bring them the show,” Napoleon said. “Either is possible. It really depends on what kind of madman we’re dealing with. If it’s a living person at all.”

Illya walked past him to the stairs and started to climb. “Right now, we are going to operate under the assumption that it is.”

“Very well,” Napoleon nodded, although he was unconvinced of that. He started up after Illya, holding onto the rickety banister as he went and wondering how long it would last.

****

Illya’s stalker, meanwhile, had decided to go the basement route. But his exploration of the musty and unwelcoming space had only netted him some very disturbed feelings as he had knocked on the walls in search of a secret lever and had received knocks back in Morse code, translating to Get out.

Pushing back his increasing alarm, he continued knocking on the wall in determination. A ghost wouldn’t talk to him in Morse code, would it? He wasn’t even sure that he believed in ghosts at all. He had certainly always been raised to be a logical and scientifically minded person. Ghosts, as far as he was concerned, did not come under the heading of logical or scientific.

When cold fingers closed around his ankle and suddenly gave a tremendous pull, throwing him to the floor, he cried out in pain and shock. Immediately he looked over his shoulder, his heart racing wildly. There was nothing there and no place for a human to have hidden themselves so quickly.

“Who are you?” he demanded, trying to turn onto his back and sit up. “What do you want?”

The cold fingers ran down his cheek and over his coat, stopping over his frantically beating heart. When it felt like the invisible fingers were starting to ease through his clothing and his skin, he couldn’t take it any more. He screamed in panic and terror, leaping up and running for the stairs in the next instant. Ghosts or no ghosts, this was too much to stand. He had already survived nearly being killed once. He wasn’t going to let something grab his heart and forcefully stop it, if that was what it had in mind.

He wasn’t even considering running into Illya and Napoleon anymore. Even if he did, that sounded better than this.

****

At the head of the stairs, Napoleon froze. “Did you hear that?”

“Another scream. Yes.” Illya looked up and down the hall. “Most likely yet another trick, like the cry that brought us in here to begin with.” Choosing a direction, he headed for the nearest room and opened the door. “A bedroom. This should overlook the cemetery quite well.” He entered, crossing to the window. “Yes, this is just about over the spot where we first started seeing the statues.”

“But no secret room in sight,” Napoleon mused. “Judging by the location of the next window over, there’s no space for there to be a hidden room.”

“True.” Illya briefly looked around the room and then stepped out to go to the next one over. “And I imagine you will take that as further evidence of supernatural happenings.”

“Well, if the sheet fits,” Napoleon said with a shrug.

Illya gave him a Look but did not reply.

The next room, also a bedroom, felt unusually cold as they walked inside. “There must be a draft,” Illya said, looking to the window.

“It looks closed to me,” Napoleon said. “Anyway, it’s not that cold outside.”

A large wardrobe against the wall creaked as Illya walked past it. Frowning, he paused and turned to it, then stepped closer. As he moved to open the door, it opened for him. He pulled it the rest of the way and stared inside.

“Anything?” Napoleon asked. He half-expected to be told that there was a skeleton inside.

“Nothing,” Illya replied. He shut the door firmly, not wanting it to pop open again without warning, and headed to the window.

“And I suppose everything looks calm below,” Napoleon said.

“Quite.” Illya turned away from the window. “There’s probably only activity when we’re down there.”

“And now that we’re up here, the activity has come with us.” Napoleon turned away, looking to the open door. He had a terribly strong urge to flee from this room and not stay a minute longer. Something wanted them to leave. He could sense that as clearly as he knew Illya was in the room with him.

“Napoleon, look out!”

Suddenly Illya was flying at him, tackling him to the floor. Behind them, something large crashed to the floor and splintered.

Napoleon looked over his shoulder with a start, the color drained from his face. The wardrobe had tipped over.

“That was firmly on the floor when I went to it,” Illya declared, absolutely shaken. He moved away from Napoleon and stood before reaching to help his friend up. “Are you alright, Napoleon?”

“Physically fine, yes,” Napoleon replied, accepting the assistance. “But knowing that something unseen just tried to kill me doesn’t make me a very happy camper.”

“If I hadn’t moved as quickly as I did . . .” Illya pushed Napoleon ahead of him into the hall. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Do I take it that you’re abandoning the idea that something living is doing this?” Napoleon asked in some surprise.

“I don’t know what I think,” Illya shot back. “But I didn’t see any electrical wiring on that wardrobe or anything else that could account for why it fell over. If it was a spirit’s doing, however, why did it go after you instead of me?”

“I couldn’t say.” Napoleon was relieved to move into the significantly less chilly corridor. “Maybe it was angry that I hadn’t managed to convince you to leave.”

“Well, I’m convinced now,” Illya declared.

While they were discussing the issue upstairs and heading for the staircase, Illya’s stalker was racing up from the basement. He could still feel the invisible hands reaching for him, grabbing at him, and he couldn’t take it.

“No, no, leave me alone!” he yelled. “I’m going! I’m _going,_ I tell you!”

At the top of the stairs, a horrific chill passed completely through his body. For a split second, he saw the image of a strange man run out in front of him and then vanish.

“That . . . it . . . it went _through_ me!” he shrieked.

Screaming in terror, he ran out of the house through the side door, letting it flap wildly behind him. He was so intent on escape that he didn’t even realize he was running into his companion until the collision happened and they were both sprawled on the ground.

“Cor blimey, Ecks!” the other man yelled in confused frustration. “What’s the matter with you?!”

Illya’s stalker, enemy agent Mr. Ecks—left for dead in Hyde Park by Illya and Napoleon, but alive and terrified—pushed himself up and paid no mind to the fact that his sunglasses were slipping down his nose. “Come on!” he exclaimed, grabbing his friend’s arm and pulling on it. “We have to get out of here, now!”

“What for?” The other man scowled, half-letting himself be pulled. “You go in there following Kuryakin, I don’t hear anything from you for ages, or see anything except torches passing through the windows, and suddenly you come barreling out of there like a ruddy banshee!”

“Nevermind that!” Ecks retorted. “We’ll talk about it later. Maybe. Let’s go, Wye!”

Mr. Wye—who had also survived his near-death experience—stared at him. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it,” he declared. “You really think you saw something in there, don’t you?”

Ecks was sheet-white. “I don’t know _what_ I saw,” he said, “and I don’t care to go back in there to find out.”

“Well, maybe you should just give up this fool idea of following Kuryakin around,” Wye shot back. “Did you ever think of that?”

“Not yet.” Ecks’ eyes darkened. “I can’t give up yet. But for today, _yes._ ” He jumped a mile as the house gave an unnatural _creak._

“Alright, alright.” Wye shook his head, a bit concerned by Ecks’ extreme reactions. Normally the boy was the calm, cool, and collected one of the two; if either was going to flip out, it was generally Wye. “Let’s go back to the motel, have a drink, and forget all about what happened here.”

“I’ll never be able to forget it,” Ecks declared. _“Never.”_

Wye didn’t want to admit it, but he _was_ a little chilled when what sounded like a shriek echoed from the house.

Maybe, he decided, it was better not to know what was going on there, just as Ecks said.

****

Illya and Napoleon had definitely heard Mr. Ecks screaming right before his wild exit from the house. Rushing to the bottom of the stairs, they followed the sound into the kitchen and to the flapping side door.

“Well,” Napoleon remarked, hearing a car speed away, “it looks like the spirits got to your stalker as well.”

“Good,” Illya shot back. “Maybe he’ll leave me alone now.”

“Pity we still don’t know who he is,” Napoleon mused.

“Most likely he got what he deserved.” Illya studied the door for a moment. “There’s no sense going around to the front door. Let’s just depart from here.”

“Fine with me.” Napoleon went through the door onto the steps below. Illya swiftly followed, pulling the door shut behind them.

It was when they were climbing into Napoleon’s car that the house suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree. Every window was ablaze. The agents stared. But just as abruptly as it happened, the lights went out again and a bone-chilling shriek rang through the night.

“Well,” Napoleon said at last, slumping back in the seat, “do we consider that a human did all that?”

“At the moment, I do not care,” Illya retorted. “Just as long as we leave.”

Napoleon was already starting the engine. “Then we’re leaving.”

Neither of them could rest easy until the mansion was far behind them. About twelve blocks away, Illya finally started to relax.

“I wonder what the history of that mansion is,” he said.

“I’m sure we could find out,” Napoleon said. “If you really want to know.”

“Part of me does,” Illya admitted. “The other part wishes to leave it far behind us.”

“I believe I’ll listen to that part, at least for a while,” Napoleon said.

“That is quite alright with me,” Illya said. He paused. “But one question. Should we report this to Mr. Waverly?”

“Hmm. Do you think we should?”

“Not unless he asks why we were gone so long. Which he likely will.”

“We could simply say we heard a scream and went in there looking for the source,” Napoleon offered. “We wouldn’t have to give any details.”

Illya considered that and nodded. “That might work.”

****

Mr. Waverly was waiting for them when they arrived back at U.N.C.L.E. HQ. “Well, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin,” he greeted calmly. “That was certainly an extraordinarily extended dinner.”

“No, Sir,” Napoleon said slowly, exchanging a look with Illya before continuing. “We had to make an unplanned stop on the way back.”

“Oh?” Mr. Waverly frowned. “What sort of unplanned stop?”

Illya stepped forward. “We were looking for the source of a mysterious scream, Sir.”

“I see. And did you find it?”

“No. It was probably just some kids playing a prank,” Napoleon said.

“Perhaps.” Mr. Waverly fell silent, deep in thought, and then looked up again. “The restaurant you went to. Isn’t it on Rosewood?”

“Why, yes, it is,” Napoleon blinked.

“Then it goes past the old Rosewood Heights mansion, doesn’t it?”

“Well . . .” Again Napoleon and Illya exchanged a look, this time filled with surprise. “It goes past an old mansion.”

“That’s where we heard the scream,” Illya put in.

Mr. Waverly nodded, not surprised. “I should have suspected as much. Perhaps I should have warned you gentlemen. That isn’t a place one should tangle with.”

“Do you know the secret of the mansion, Mr. Waverly?” Napoleon asked.

“Oh no. Not at all.” Mr. Waverly puffed on his pipe. “But I once took a wrong turn and ended up there just as my car ran out of gas. That isn’t an experience I would repeat for any sum of money.”

“How long ago was this?” Illya wanted to know.

“Ten . . . no, twelve years ago,” Mr. Waverly replied. “It’s quite a sight. Statues deteriorate and regenerate practically in front of your eyes. Some of them seem to be watching you.”

“Do the tombstones ever seem to move?” Napoleon wondered.

“I believe so. Yes, I was almost tripped by one of them. I neatly sidestepped it only to be bamboozled by another one from behind.”

Illya still looked incredulous. “What about inside the mansion?”

“More of the same thing. The furniture moves, falls over. . . . I nearly fell when the banister abruptly rocked to the side. Oddly enough, the movement didn’t seem to have been prompted by its dilapidated state.”

Napoleon shuddered, grateful that he had not had that experience.

“Oh, Mr. Kuryakin, what about your shadow?” Mr. Waverly suddenly changed the subject. “Are you any closer to learning his identity?”

“I’m afraid not, Sir,” Illya admitted. “But I think he followed us to the mansion. Several times we heard a male voice screaming. Eventually someone fled out of the house and was gone before we could catch up.”

“A pity. Although perhaps the house gave him a lesson he won’t soon forget.”

“I’m quite sure of that,” Napoleon said.

“And I imagine he’ll be back when he recovers from his fright,” Illya added.

“Well, when he does, see that you catch him,” Mr. Waverly grunted. “This stalking nonsense has gone on far too long.”

“I very much agree,” Illya said. “It won’t continue, Mr. Waverly. I can promise you that.”

“Good.” Mr. Waverly opened a folder on his desk. “Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have some important information to review.”

“Of course.” Napoleon started to back up to the door. “Goodnight, Sir.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Illya contributed his own farewell and the two agents quietly left.

“That was unexpected,” Illya said when they were in the corridor.

“To say the least.” Napoleon started up the hallway, Illya right behind him.

“You don’t think Mr. Waverly knew all along we might end up there?” Illya wondered. “Perhaps he wanted to know how we would react.”

“It’s possible,” Napoleon conceded, “but somehow I think he was as surprised as we were to find out where we’d gone.”

“At least we know now where to avoid.”

“We also have a name that we can use to look up information,” Napoleon said.

“If we want it.”

“True.”

“I still have no desire to learn the mansion’s history. Most of it is probably only legend, anyway.”

“Probably.”

Somehow Napoleon knew, however, that Illya would be looking up the Rosewood Mansion the first chance he had.

Illya knew that Napoleon knew, too.

But he wouldn’t say so.


End file.
